Cornucopia (A Chloe Boston Mystery Book 16) Page 8

  Our captain, Jack Ermie, said little on the way out. Perhaps he had grown jaded transporting guests to the island and was tired of recounting the history of the house to visitors. I rather thought that the owners of Gifford House were missing an opportunity because a good ghost story on the ride out could get people primed. They could even have one of their staff pose as a guest.

  Captain Ermie set us down at the dock and wasted no time in getting away. He gave the impression of a man wanting to be well away from the island before dark fell. Or perhaps he just wanted to be off the water when it started raining.

  I had been aware of a high thin sound even above the waves smacking at the dock but it grew louder as we neared the house. The wind, it was just the wind, but the sound was eerie enough to bother Alex who lacks my imagination. The house sprawled out but also up and it had two towers, one three stories, the other four. The taller one was narrow and covered in some kind of vine that looked like scales.

  “Did you say we were in a tower bedroom?” I asked Alex.

  “Yes. We’re on the fourth floor. It’s supposed to have a great view.”

  Uh-huh, and probably no bath.

  The builder had understood drama. The front door was reached up a flight of stone steps made out of some kind of dark granite being encroached upon by some sort of creeper. Our hostess was waiting for us in the massive doorway, holding up an oil lantern which I hoped was just for effect and not because we had lost power.

  “Good evening,” Mrs. Black said, giving a fair impersonation of the evil Mrs. Danvers from Rebecca.

  We all said good evening back but everyone except David and Isobel Crowe sounded uncertain. With the weather closing in and the deepening darkness, I don’t think we were ready to commit to the idea that it would be a good evening at all.

  The entry hall was large with a highly polished floor of black stone that managed to look like water from the black lagoon. I looked around at the lighting which was cleverly done to enhance but not distract from the gloomy atmosphere, and began to feel some relief that the oil lamp was just for atmosphere. Pretend haunted is fun; real haunted, not so much.

  Other guests joined us in the lobby. They were dressed for a cocktail party and I think all us new arrivals were aware that we were windblown and salt sprayed and looking rather shabby.

  “There is time to change before dinner,” Mrs. Black said, looking like a waxwork as she began handing out candles—which I was relieved to see were battery operated and not actual naked flames. The house was old and made of very dry wood. They would be crazy to risk handing out live torches to the guests.

  Fortunately, since the light from the candles was negligible, there was recessed lighting on the stairs. Again, very subtle but enough to prevent a nasty fall and to highlight the oil portraits on the wall which I was certain had undergone some enhancing. No family could look that sinister generation after generation.

  Since Alex had requested a room in the fourth-floor tower, we had a long walk down the right-wing corridor and then a long climb up to our aerie. Since there was no bellman to carry the luggage, we were both perspiring by the time we arrived.

  The room was comfortable enough if a bit narrow. There was a fireplace with a surround of nicely carved wood and the bed was a four-poster and covered with fluffy down comforters. We would not have to worry about being cold even if it snowed. The wood panel to the left of the fireplace was slightly crooked, like a door whose hinges had begun to sag. It was hardly surprising. The house was old and was bound to have settled. Up on the fourth floor, every flaw would be cumulative and exaggerated.

  As I feared, there wasn’t a full bath, but there was a small room inside what looked like an armoire with a toilet and a sink. That would do for the time being. Warned by the website, I had included a dress—a wool one with beading so it was elegant enough for cocktails. Alex had brought his smoking jacket which he thought made him look like Noel Coward. Five minutes later and we were ready to tackle the stairs again.

  I can’t recall exactly what order I met all the guests in. The first were Grace and George Allen, recent retirees from southern California. George was a little loud but outgoing. His wife apparently didn’t feel that she needed to make much effort since her husband was so much the life and soul of the party all on his own. There were the Harts, Tammy and Daryl. And Peter and Rhonda Schwartz.

  We bolted down a preprandial glass of wine in the library. Or Alex did. I sipped once, found it too dry, and passed it along to the spouse. I’m not great with alcohol anyway and I figured it would be best if I kept my wits about me for the treasure hunt. While Alex talked computers with Daryl Hart, I wandered over to the fire to admire the rather gothic surround and chimney which had both angels and gargoyles. It was nice and warm by the fire, but it also reminded me of something I had seen online while looking up information about historic homes in Virginia.

  In the old days, people in Europe had secret passages and priest holes to avoid assassination and as a means of escape. A few homes on the East Coast had features like this because the owners had been part of the Underground Railroad. But no such necessity existed on an island off the coast of Washington State in a house built just before the turn of the last century, yet I was still willing to bet that there was some kind of hidden cupboard to the left of the fireplace. The architect who had designed the house had obviously had a streak of whimsy. More to the point, the wood panel didn’t line up as tightly with the stone chimney on that side as on the other. Because I am short, I could see that the polished timber was slightly worn right at my eye level, about shoulder height on anyone else. I refrained from attempting to find the way to open the door, which I was sure was there, though I really wanted to try it.

  “Cold?” Alex asked from behind me, dropping an arm over my shoulders.

  “A little,” I said, though it was actually a bit too warm right next to the giant fireplace that might not have been able to roast an ox, but that could have handled a large pig.

  Mrs. Black called us in to dinner. She was not waiting table. That task was left to a cadaverous man in butler’s attire and a middle-aged woman dressed as a Victorian maid. The butler was probably Mr. Black since he and our hostess were wearing matching wedding bands.

  I ended up seated between Alex and Tammy Hart. Up close, Mrs. Hart turned out to be a pale, slightly puffy woman that made me think of rising dough. She also wore an obnoxious perfume that had a lot of vetiver in it. I tried not to sneeze and succeeded but my eyes began to water with the effort.

  Across from us were Peter and Rhonda Schwartz who were doing some kind of Laurel and Hardy thing with their cutlery, using the knife and spoon to partition their food into quarters. I thought maybe they were practicing some kind of portion control for their diet but Peter Schwartz set about gobbling everything as soon as his green beans and chicken were divided. His wife ate slowly but she examined every bite as if looking for spiders. They did not speak.

  Alex’s face is easily read, mirroring his feelings candidly unless he is in a business situation, and that night it reflected a little too clearly what he was thinking of the two-fisted eating going on across from us. Fearing others might be able to read his expression too, I made some comment about the weather and nudged him under the table. If there had been any kind of conversational cover, like loud music or an argument about sports, I would have risked sharing some observation with him. But my mother, who would be polite on the way to the guillotine, had raised me right. The postmortem would have to wait until we were alone.

  The food was only so-so, but we weren’t there for the cuisine and Mrs. Black wasted no time in explaining the rules of the hunt as we polished off our pie and coffee.

  It was pretty straightforward, we would work in pairs. Each team would reach into a jar and draw out a clue that would take us to the next location. Each clue was different so there would be no following other couples. The kitchen and other guests’ bedrooms were off limits. The final step of
the hunt was to claim the small wooden box hidden in the library which was now locked and guarded by the butler. To get past the butler we would need a key which could be discovered by whichever couple solved their puzzles first. When the couple presented themselves with the key a bell would be rung summoning everyone back to the library. Though everyone had a shot at finding the box, the couple with the key would be given a clue. The game was over at midnight whether the box was found or not. Champagne would be served.

  “Are we done with dessert? Then let us begin,” Mrs. Black said, laying her napkin on the table.

  We filed out of the dining room like obedient children, but I delayed Alex so that I could have a word with him before joining the others.

  “I may have a plan,” I whispered.

  “Already?” He sounded impressed.

  “I want you to follow the clues on your own while I try something else.”

  “What?” he asked worriedly. Admittedly I have, from time to time, gotten into trouble while exploring on my own. But this was just a game, not a criminal investigation. There would be no danger.

  “I think there’s a secret way into the library. If I can get in, then I can spend my time hunting for the box. You’ll follow the clues in case I’m wrong and we have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “Okay,” he agreed but sounded dubious. I smiled encouragingly.

  Because we had dallied, Alex got the last clue. It was a little obscure but not impossible.

  The unstable place to sit while throwing money away holds the next clue.

  “The front porch has rocking chairs,” I said softly when he showed me the paper. “There’s an ornamental wishing well on the right side of the staircase. There are some pennies lying around it. They are new and untarnished, so I think they are props. If nothing is obvious at first glance, look under the seats. I can’t think they hid anything in the garden itself, not with it raining.”

  “Roger!” Alex said and we parted company. “See you soon.”

  First I explored the rooms on either side of the library. One was some kind of a parlor and the other a small office. The parlor had a fireplace but the walls were wallpapered right up to the stone face. There was no way that there was some kind of a secret stair there.

  Though my legs protested, I decided to go back to our bedroom and check out the ill-fitting panel near our fireplace. Along the way I saw the Crowes clinging to the shadows, and I heard Bill Grant explaining something about cars to his wife.

  It took me some minutes of pressing and pushing to find the latch that opened the panel beside the fireplace. I might not have found it at all, but I got out the penlight I keep in my purse, and squishing my face against the wall I shone the light toward the mantel and was finally able to spot the slight scuffing of the wood that showed where I needed to press.

  The panel opened silently but not with ease. The hinges were stiff and coated with dust. There were also an unpleasant number of cobwebs blacking my way. I shone the light into the narrow black hole and was relieved when I saw a staircase and not just a wall in a hidden cupboard.

  I went to the bathroom and fetched a towel. I flapped it at the cobwebs and was very glad to find them deserted. Webs were messy but okay if I got them in my hair. Spiders were not.

  My next concern was the state of the staircase but I tested a few steps while clinging to the doorframe and they seemed solid. Still….

  I dragged a chair over and propped open the door. First of all, I didn’t want to risk getting closed in, and heaven forbid that I had an accident, I wanted Alex to see right away which way I had gone.

  My penlight has always seemed adequate for finding car keys and other small tasks, but that long staircase with its tiny ninety-degree landings that squeaked and groaned seemed to swallow my small beam of light. There were panels leading into other bedrooms in the tower. They were ill-fitted so rooms with the lights on were easy enough to see.

  By the time I reached what I hoped was the library my towel was black and sticky and I suspected that I looked little better. I had armed myself with a penknife in case of emergencies, but the latch at the bottom of the stairs was a straightforward affair. It was covered in webs, so I used the towel to lift it.

  This door opened with a groan and damp air rushed in. I should have been warned by the lack of light and cold that I was not in the library. I flashed my tiny light around and was dazzled by green light.

  Wine bottles. I was in some kind of cellar. I had gone too far. Though I hadn’t seen any door, it must have been somewhere up there, perhaps where it had gotten warmer because of the library fire. I needed to go back up.

  The door was already squeaking closed when I heard a strange sound, a little like a panpipe. My first thought was of ghosts, but I threw the silly idea away at once. The noise came again and while I was sure that the sound was not from human vocal chords, I could not absolutely swear to it.

  I dithered. I hated to waste the time, but what if someone was hurt and their moans were being distorted by the acoustics created by all the empty wine bottles and brick walls?

  “Damn.” I wished Blue was there. She would know if the sound was human or not.

  I promised myself to waste no more than five minutes, jammed some used Kleenex into the gap to keep the door from shutting all the way, and started off in the direction of the moaning.

  The roof was low and I could only walk upright because I am short. The smell of rain was thick in the air and I was shivery with cold and regretting that I hadn’t brought a coat. The dirt floor, while not actually mud, was damp and growing wetter. Finally I reached the source of the sound and almost fell when I tripped over what turned out to be a small pile of coins.

  I could hear rain and looking up, I could just make out the round stone structure that I was sure was the wishing well out in the garden. It was covered by a small roof but water was drizzling down the cement walls and dripping onto the pile of tarnished coins at my feet.

  Curious, I knelt and examined the coins. I found a tarnished oak-leaf penny at the edge of the pile. Alex used to collect old pennies, so I pocketed it to show him later.

  The moan came again and I realized it was only the wind. I was just getting to my feet when I heard voices over the gusty groaning. It took a moment to place them. It was Bill and Stephie Grant. Mrs. Grant was not at all happy to be out in the rain. She also sounded rather fearful and whiny. Bill must have thought so too because he began assuring her for “the tenth time” that there were no such things as ghosts.

  Unable to resist, I tilted my face up and gave my best ghost moan. It sounded pretty good to me down in the tunnel, but must have been a real winner coming out of the well because Stephie shrieked and I could hear the crashing of bushes as they ran away with Bill swearing.

  The tunnel went on further, but I decided to go back instead of exploring. I still needed to find the library and the box in it. Alex would have his silly snowmobile if he really wanted it, though I was a little bothered by the idea that we were kind of cheating. Of course, Alex had always believed we were cheating and was okay with it, otherwise he wouldn’t have used me to find the treasure in the first place.

  The corridor on the way back was less frightening since I knew it was safe and that the spider webs were gone. My legs protested climbing more stairs, but I went slowly, and since the walls were all brick, I used my hand to find where the wall was hottest. After the fireplace was located, I moved to the left on the landing and began feeling for the panel. With pressure applied, a crack opened, emitting light and a narrow view of the library. It took a moment to find the latch which was over my head, but the panel slid open with a soft wheeze.

  It was a relief to step into the warmth and light, though I wasn’t happy to discover that my hands were gray with grime.

  Mr. and Mrs. Black were both tall people. I dragged a chair into the middle of the room and stood on it.

  They were tall and they also were not champion dusters. I saw where
books had been disturbed on one of the highest shelves. Dragging my chair over I began moving the heavy volumes. They were Victorian erotica and I had to wonder what the last clue was.

  A quick peek in the box revealed a set of keys for an Arctic Cat, which I assumed was a snowmobile.

  Part of me wanted to rehide the box and watch the Blacks freak out. I weighed this against taking the box and presenting it to Alex. Or just pretending to find it when the library was open. There was every chance that Alex would be the first one to finish. He was smart and determined. However….

  A bell began to toll. I looked at the mantle clock and saw it was quarter of midnight. I lifted the box down, carried it to the panel and set it inside the hidden passage, and closed the door. There was no time to clean up, so I seated myself in a chair near the fire and tucked my hands out of sight.

  There were voices outside which went on for a few minutes and then the door was opened by Mr. Black. Everyone poured in. As I had anticipated, Alex had the clue in hand. He spotted me first and hurried over. He thrust the clue at me.

  Hard work and discipline sometimes get you off.

  It was a little crude, but a fair clue given what part of the library the box had been hidden in.

  “Top shelf, left wall, second case in. But it isn’t there anymore,” I told him.

  At this point everyone was staring at me.

  “How did you get in here?” Mrs. Black asked, looking baffled. “The window.…”

  But the window was closed tight and bolted with a serious lock. I could not have forced it from outside. And if I had, I would have been as wet as Stephie and Bill who were dripping on the faux Persian rug.

  “I just followed the clues. And I have a surprise for you—which I will show you later,” I added, realizing that they might not want their secret passage revealed to the public. It could come in very handy on their murder mystery weekends. “But now it’s almost New Year’s. Let’s have some champagne!”